December in Louisiana – sultry and damp as a Fox News blonde. I was working late, signing a stack of letters to district voters to go out in the morning mail. The usual song and dance. Looking for funding to repair potholes in front of their crackerbox homes, 90th birthday wishes to some drooling old-timer in a home for the nearly dead, promising to look into impeaching that ‘colored boy in the White House.’
We call it ‘constituent relations.’ I call it greasing the wheels for some 2014 campaign donations.
Man can’t live on NRA blood money alone.
I picked up my glass and swirled the last of my workday blend of half-Johnny Walker Red, half-Red Bull. I call it ‘The Red Menace.’ After tossing it back I surveyed the office. Because it was the holidays and everyone was either itching to get in some last minute shopping or get an early start getting shit-faced drunk, I’d sent everyone home early.
Well, almost everyone.
Melissa, my scheduler, was still at her desk. She had a tiny mirror in her hand and a small army of lipstick tubes spread out before her as she sampled colors. She’s a trained cosmetologist. You know: a pro.
I tapped out a Lucky and fired it up, blowing a thin stream of smoke up into the ceiling fan that slowly stirred the swampy air. I watched Melissa try on a color, then make kissy-lips at her face in mirror like she was a 2016 presidential contender and the mirror was Sheldon Adelson’s ass. Someday that was going to be me kissing Adleson’s ass. I’ve got big plans.
Melissa’s not much of a scheduler, but I gave her a job because her old man is a pal of mine going way back. That’s what you do when you get into Congress, you spread the wealth. Sometimes you spread a few other things.
After watching her try on about eight different shades of coral, I decided to call it a night.
“Hey Dollface. It’s quittin’ time.”
She turned and smiled at me and I saw a smear of Sunset Frost on her teeth. She was an out-of-practice cosmetologist.
“Sure thing, Vance. You want I should straighten up before we go?”
“Nah, leave it for the cleaning lady. It’ll give her something else to do besides stealing us blind.”
As Melissa stashed a Sephora’s store worth of make-up into her bag, I stubbed out my cigarette and tossed the butt in my now-empty glass.
I went to the door and flipped off the light and the room grew dim, lit only by the neon glare of the Popeye’s Chicken stand next door.
I felt Melissa sidle up to me, her breath warm on my collar.
“So. We gonna exchange ‘Christmas gifts’ in my mini-van,” she said, her fingers making little air quotes around ‘Christmas gifts’ so that I would know that she was talking about sex. Probably oral.
“Oh baby, we both gotta get home. Heath’s probably waiting for you and my wife wants me to put together a Barbie dream house or some kind of shit like that before Christmas eve.”
She leaned in closer, her tongue snaking into my ear.
“Benghazi,” she whispered. “I.R.S. scandal.”
I felt a stirring in my pants and was glad that I had worn pleated-front Dockers that day.
“No fair,” I growled. She knew how to light my fuse.
“Fast and furious, ” she hissed.
I turned and grabbed her thick mane of hair, pulling her head back , baring her throat. I kissed her deep and hard, my tongue slapping her uvula back and forth like a speed bag. She tasted good: like sin, Altoids, and an oyster po’ boy. Maybe shrimp, I wasn’t sure. I was dizzy with lust.
We pulled apart. Panting, tumescent, uncomfortably sweaty.
This wasn’t the time.
“I can’t, babe. It’s the holidays. Maybe the day after Christmas – on Boxing Day,” I leered. She didn’t get it.
“Fine,” she pouted. Her clotted and over-mascaraed eyelashes fluttered like the legs of a tarantula having a seizure. She was really awful at make-up. I wondered where she got her cosmetology degree. Tulane?
We left the office with me holding my jacket in front of me to hide a big wet spot.
Christmas wasn’t the only thing that came early that year.
Three months passed and then one day a woman in a trench coat and over-sized sunglasses showed up at my office asking to see me. She said she was a constituent.
After settling into a chair, she reached into a large handbag she was carrying and drew out a manila envelope which she then tossed onto my desk.
“Open it,” she commanded.
I slit the envelope open and a silver disk slid into my hand: a CD.
“Are you from Amazon, ” I asked. “Is this the new Lady Antebellum I ordered?”
“Hardly. It’s a video, I suggest you watch it,” she glanced away while lighting up a Virginia Slim.
I popped the CD into my computer.
There it was, a surveillance video showing me and Melissa doing the face nasty in my office.
“What…who…how did you get this?” I asked as the room reeled around me the way it usually did after my fourth Red Menace.
“What difference does it make, McAllister?” she snapped at me. “The Ouachita Citizen has a copy of it and they’re going public with it tomorrow. You’re done, finished, over, kaput.” For emphasis, she put her cigarette out with a sizzle on her tongue. I found that indescribably hot.
She got up and went to the door where she turned slightly, looked back over her shoulder, and said, “Pack up your bags, Tea Party boy. Party’s over. It’s a one way ride to Loserville and you’ve got the only ticket.”
Then she walked out of what was left of my shattered life.
The next few days went by in a blur. Statements to the press apologizing to my family, the voters, the party for being a man slut. Having one-on-ones with God, trying to get Him to give me a vote of confidence. I pitched. He didn’t swing.
I stayed away from work except to call in and fire Melissa for being such a dirty whore. My wife spent the afternoon googling symptoms for every STD known to man. I caught two of my boys playing Grand Theft Auto, but all they were doing was beating a hooker with a baseball bat while screaming, “Kill the dirty bitch for destroying our family.”
I got a call from the state chair saying I needed to step down.
There was only one thing for me to do.
I called Vitter.
He knew the ropes. He’d been here before. He’d know how to patch things up.
“Dave, you gotta help me, man,” I pleaded with him. “You were banging hookers left and right and you not only held onto your job, you got reelected. What’s your secret? I gotta know. I’m desperate.”
“Shee-it. boy, you’re screwed,” he drawled. “First rule ‘o pol-o-tics is you don’t shit where you eat. You can’t be banging administrative staff in a district office. Do like I did, hire a pro -maybe two or three at a time- and do it a hotel room. That’s the American way.”
“But all I did was kiss her,” I whined.
“Riiiight,” he said. I could hear his smirk in his voice. “And all I did was sit in a suite at the Watergate wearing a man-sized Pampers while naked ladies read me ‘Goodnight Moon’.”
I heard the clink of a Zippo as he lit up a cigarette. As I waited for him to continue, I imagined him blowing smoke rings at the ceiling and then piercing them with a steady column of smoke – like a penis going into a vagina.
I miss Melissa already.
“Thing is,” he continued.”You also screwed a friend’s wife. That is not copacetic. Not cool at all. Hell, even John Ensign couldn’t survive that and he’s from Godless Nevada where every third women is a whore. You done did the God thing, which is always good, but you gotta get your back up. Get angry. Call it a conspiracy or sumpin’.”
“Should I say that it’s just a distraction to draw attention away from the failures of Obamacare?” I asked hopefully.
“That’s the spirit!” he said encouragingly. “Maybe throw in some Benghazi, a little Lois Lerner, fake climate change science, Common Core, evolution, religious freedom ….the whole megillah.”
“Do you think it will work?” I asked.
“Can’t hurt,” he replied. “And if it doesn’t you’ll still have a shot at landing a Fox gig, cuz they like feisty. And that should tide you over until 2016 when you can run against Hillary and her whoremaster husband. He got more than a little kiss in the ‘Oral’ office if you know what I mean. Haw haw haw.”
I felt better. I hung up the phone and poured myself a Red Menace. The house was quiet except for the occasional sobs of my wife coming from the spare bedroom. I could beat this. I had a plan.
I logged onto Ashley Madison.
This time I was going to be discreet …
[Young caucasian couple in love at twilight light on Shutterstock]
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